Daddy Will Take Care of You
by DreamerChick
Summary: ...She looks at me, eyes pleading. “I g-g -got t-t-ten b-bucks. I n -n- need whatever I can g-g-get. I-I- I- G-G-otta, I gotta, I...” she trails off. "There, there, baby. Daddy will take care of you. Daddy will take care of you.”


POV/Stream of consciousness . --aka- rambling thoughts.

A/N: I have serious writers block so fanfiction is my cure- it gets me writing again, just not on what I SHOULD be working on.

And to be honest, I wanted to do a piece with the Man. (and I wish I hadn't cause now openoffice automatically wants to put the word withdrawals when ever I type the word 'with')

But anyway. I digress. Enjoy.

Disclaimer- I don't own them. I just borrow. I'll put 'em back when I'm done...almost in the condidtion I found them in if I can.

XXX

I've been sitting here all day, in Tompkins Square Park, watching people come in and out of the Life Cafe if I look one way, and watching kids play in the playground, and men more energetic than I play basketball , if I look the other. All of these people are calling to each other by names.

Let me get one thing out of the way. I have no name. I mean, yeah, I was given one when I was born and answered to it or willingly ignored it -depending on my attitude I suppose- back before all this. But truth be told, I don't remember it anymore. I don't need it really. My clients all know who I am, and at worst, I'm just a no name dealer, at best I'm "The Man" or "Daddy". My supplier, calls me "Slick" I have no need to remember my legal name.

Names: make you attached. Names: make you care. Names:get you caught.

That's why I have no name and my clients have nicknames at best. And then only those that actually make it worth my money and time to remember them. Over time, I've had at maybe a dozen that were that loyal. Or that memorable. And three or so in the past couple of years.

Red: that smile. And those lips. I am, for all my not so legal existence and policy of non-attachment, still very much a man. And I'm willing to have my manly needs taken care of in exchange for product every now and again. But only if they are worthy. And god-damn was she worthy. I pity the world for the loss of Red. There are some that would argue I was a major force in her death. But I was just a small ripple. I supplied what she demanded. The fact is she chose to use a dirty needle she'd gotten off of who the bloody fuck knows- I give them **one** needle that's **_clean_,** with the first time I recruit them. After that, it's out of my hands.

And another thing that should be clear. Had I stopped selling to her, for whatever reason, she'd have gone somewhere, anywhere else for her fix.And I gotta make a living some how. And it ain't much of one at that. A crappy studio on Ave D and 5th st. So no, Red's death isn't really my fault. Despite what Lover- Boy may say.

Lover-Boy : Rock star- wannabe. He never really bought till he hooked up with Red. And even then, he normally sent her. He bought from me a grand total of 8 times directly. Actually he paid money for his smack 6 times directly that Red wasn't involved in. After all, like most good dealers, and I am a good dealer, I gave his first hit free. Small bag- 10milligram or so. My freebie bags are never measured out. Just a guess. He came back the next afternoon and bought a gram to use with his band mates. Red came back the next day and started to double her orders- and actually pay money for them. The next the patterned continued- Lover-boy would buy a small amount – sometimes getting smack for him and blow for his bandmates, and Red would come and double what she normally got. Admittedly occasionally she only paid half, but I am not to keen on the whole monogamy thing anyway so whatver happened after she got back to him, ain't my problem.

The only time I gave Lover boy another freebie was just after Red off'd herself. He came at me, a mess, withdrawling like crazy, insane with grief. Blaiming me for her death, and his disease. I've said it before- Red's death is **NOT** my fault. I use condoms when I trade sex for drugs,( I don't want kids) and the needle I gave her that got her hooked-was clean. After that, it was in her hands.

I however was not going to try to reason with him. I simply reached in the pocket where I keep my freebies, gave him a bag, and promised him that things would get better with that little bag of magic.

Unfortunatley, at that moment, Lover-boy's scrawney little albino friend and the tall, take -no- shit black one found him. The scrawney one managed to find some like super human strength and jumped Lover-boy and pulled him from me. And managed to pull the baggie out of his hands and throw it away. And I got my ass kicked by the tall one. My own withdrawals had started to take over at that point – my supplier was away that week so I had to cut back my own to have enough for my clients. So I really didn't stand a chance. I woke up a few hours later behind the dumpster behind the Life Cafe

I never saw Lover-Boy again until that night with Brown Eyes.

Brown-Eyes: Oh,Brown-Eyes. Her, I actually almost miss. Almost. She's finally stopped coming back to me. It certainly isn't the ideal situation. I would never actually make good on my threat to Lover-Boy- murder is too fucking messy and well it takes too much energy- but this is his fault. Him and those friends of his. They all keep her away. I can tell you one thing I miss: Her Body. That girl was almost always, up until Lover Boy, trading favors.

And she was the only person that could get a deal from me with out a trade. She was better at pleading then Red ever was. Something in those big, doe-like eyes.

And, truth be told, she was the only client that really never pissed me off. She'd take my word on my measurements- I said it was an ounce, it was an ounce. She was a **good** client too. She'd get off work at the Catscratch, and find me. I stay out late. More people want a fix at night then during the day. She'd spend half a day's or sometimes an entire day's tips on smack.

Not anymore though. She hardly glances my way any more. And when she does it's with disgust.

But I'm used to that look. I'm blamed when people ruin their realationships, their health, or their jobs,or all three with their addictions.

I know that the shit I sell is addictive. And to be quite blunt, I can safely say I don't give much of a fuck. Hell, that's why I sell smack and blow- my clients will always need their fixes. Weed dealers- eh, small change, small time. And pot isn't physically addictive. So should a pot dealer decide that he wants to raise his prices or cut back his portions, his clients physically can walk away from him. Mine, sometimes they barely can stand , the withdrawals are so shitty.That sickness junkies talk about having to ward off it ain't no joke, miss. I ought to know. I'm pretty far hooked. I can't start my day without a hit. And for the most part, I just go stand and wait normally at the gate to Tompkins Square Park or occasionally I wander the lot between A & B. Even less often I wander the streets of Alphabet City.

And I can also say I don't give a fuck about HIV/AIDS. Strike that. I do give a little notice to it. I give about as much notice to it as a food-service worker does to Salmonella and E.Coli. Enough that I do anything I can to keep the disease from being traced back to me. And I care when it takes a client. But, as much as it pains me, Lover boy was right. I will never lack for customers.

It's nearly 3 PM and I haven't had a customer all day. This is bullshit. **BULLSHIT**.

I glance around. I hate to leave, Tompkins Square is just my best location. But nobody is here...no, wait a minute. I see her. A scrawny little thing, a regular. And she's desperate. She's seen me and is sort of running but I can tell the withdrawals have started and with a vengence.

She looks at me, eyes pleading but glazed as hell. "I g-g -got t-t-ten b-bucks. I n -n- need whatever I can g-g-get. I-I- I- G-G-otta, I gotta, I..." she trails off.

"There, there, baby. Daddy will take care of you. Daddy will take care of you."

XXX

End note: Well, that was dark. But disturbingly fun- bad guys are fun to write.

I'm marking it as complete because I think it is, but I almost want to continue. But I have two other stories, and then I NEED to get back to my original work. So, "we'll see boys."

Let me know what you think.


End file.
